


Pacing

by johnllauren



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: M/M, fanfic about founding fathers idfk, lots of death mentions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-30
Updated: 2015-11-30
Packaged: 2018-05-04 02:27:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 808
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5317031
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/johnllauren/pseuds/johnllauren
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pacing is what Alexander is good at. And, if not pacing, then getting out. It’s his way of coping with the inevitable – death – something he has been faced with his entire life. How he mourns, if you will. But he never thought he'd be pacing for Laurens.<br/>Set, musical wise, during Non-Stop.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pacing

Pacing is what Alexander is good at. And, if not pacing, then getting _out_. It’s his way of coping with the inevitable – death – something he has been faced with his entire life. 

When his mother died, he was too sick to move or do anything of the sort. But after that, every time he has been faced with death, he gets out. It does not matter how he does, whether pacing, going on long walks, or leaving the place altogether. Alexander used to swear that he had seen every single square inch of Nevis, back when he lived there. 

People stopped dying when Alexander went to New York. Well, they didn’t exactly stop dying. But he no longer had anyone dear to him die. Those soldiers in the war? They mattered, yes, but Alexander didn’t know them personally. His close friends – Lafayette, Mulligan, his Laurens (hell, even Burr if he’s being honest) – survived with him. 

Until Laurens didn’t. 

Alexander is still high off the victory. The colonies won. _We_ won. Nothing bad can happen now. 

“There’s a letter for you.” Eliza says one afternoon, walking past the doorway to his office, a letter in her hand.

Alexander glances at the letter. “It’s from Laurens, I’ll read it later.” He’s already starting to get excited. Is John come up to New York? He longs to open the envelope and devour John’s words, no matter how reserved they have to be to protect the illegal “little secret” of their relationship.

“It’s… from his father.” Eliza says gently. 

“His father?” Alexander asks. John despises his father. Why would he write to Alexander? Unless he knows. No, that’s crazy. John would never let something that big slip in front of anybody, especially his father.

“Laurens was killed in battle in late August.” Eliza sighs, walking into Alexander’s office and placing a comforting hand on his shoulder.

“No.” Alexander mutters. She must be playing a trick on him. “But – but the war was over by then.”

“I’m sorry, Alexander.” 

Alexander shakes his head. “I have so much work to do.” 

Eliza recognizes that he wants to be alone. She gives him one more pat on the shoulder and leaves the room. And Alexander is left alone with his grief. 

His first instinct is to run. To run out of the house and down the street and out of the neighborhood, to just run until he can’t run anymore. But he can’t do that. Alexander has more things to worry about now, a reputation to uphold, a country to help shape. 

He feels the first few tears making their ways down his face. Nobody can see this, this torn up state of grief over a man he was never supposed to be this close to. Alexander wipes the tears away angrily. This is stupid, this isn’t supposed to happen. 

He needs to get out. If not get out, he needs to move. He needs to preoccupy himself. And if he can’t pace with his feet, then he’ll pace with his hands.

Alexander pulls a piece of paper in front of him, a quill. He sets the pen to the paper and he writes. It’s not like he has nothing to write about. He’s got a murder trial to win, documents to write, a constitution to defend. 

Over the next few months, Alexander writes more than he has ever written before. He stops going out to the bars like he used to, and instead stays in his law office writing. Some nights, he doesn’t even go home. He’s always there early in the morning, before the sun comes up. He doesn’t leave until late, when the only light is the moon and the stars. 

It’s not like he can sleep, anyway. Not with so much to do. Not for over three hours at a time. He falls asleep on his desk more times than he can count. Most weeks, he can count the hours of sleep he gets on his fingers.

Poor Eliza is worried about him, Alexander knows that. Sometimes he thinks even Burr is worried for him. The man lingers in their law office building occasionally, watching Alexander write like mad. He looks like he wants to say something, but shakes his head and leaves. 

Alexander watches as his hand flits across the page, moving almost of its own accord and not pausing until whatever he’s written has been finished. Sometimes he catches himself in the middle of writing a letter to John, only to stop abruptly and crumple it up and throw it at the nearest wall. 

He will never write another letter to Laurens, he will never receive a letter from Laurens. It’s over. Laurens is over. Sometimes he forgets that, but there is always that feeling of _pain_ – piercing, agonizing _pain_ – whenever he remembers. 

Because Laurens – _his Laurens_ – is gone.

**Author's Note:**

> yikes


End file.
